TUTORIAL: Klimtchen Baby Blankets

I love making crazy patchwork blankets. Which is a good thing, because every time somebody gets pregnant - and I seem to know a lot of remarkably fecund people - they want one of these. You know, "the blankets that look like modern art. Like a Klimt painting!" So I call these blankets Klimtchen (little Klimts in German). If you'd like to make one, I recommend checking out the tutorial for the adult-sized blanket first (blog link here and a link directly to the PDF download here) because it contains a lot of advice about the general process of planning these blankets.

The link to the tutorial PDF is here.

The Mambag

Once upon a time, I used to have loads of handbags. As in, a heap of them. A veritable plethora. Big ones, small ones, gorgeously impractical ones. I didn't want to end up like one of those women that carted around a massive handbag full of rubbish (like my mother, if truth be told.) And why would I? Because all I needed to carry around in my bag was a notepad and pen, mobile phone and wallet - easily transferable between multiple bags.

Then I became a mother and my bag collection got whittled down to one - the bag that's big enough to fill with a bunch of random items but small enough to stuff into a stroller or sling around a neck while wrestling with a baby intent on escape. As to the contents of my handbag? Well, this happened:

Tipped out on to the coffee table, the contents of my handbag look like this:



There are many surprises, even for me - a lonely shoe. A sock. A rattle. Sophie, the hipster giraffe (it was a present, honest. I wasn't aware of how chic my child was, till someone informed me of the coolness of the toy then rammed into the chubby jaws of my drooling infant. Well, hello hipster me!). Wipes, nappies, coupons, a note from my Auntie Attracta with precise instructions about the type of yarn I have to buy for her. A lip gloss. Receipts.
And tissues.
Oh, my goodness, the tissues. There are tissues stuffed in my pockets, up my sleeve, down my bra - and not in the saucy way, but in the you-stay-down-there-till-I-need-to-spit-on-you-and-wipe-a-sticky-face way. When I undress at night, there's a snowfall of balled-up paper handkerchiefs. And the startling thing is, my mother is the exact same. Just like Hänsel and Gretel left a trail of breadcrumbs, she leaves a trail of ... tissues.

Which is why yesterday's Mothers' Day realisation was much less a realisation and more of a mental smack in the head, affixing a truism to my forehead that I know, but would rather forget: the older we get, the more inclined we are to become like our mothers. Because I now no longer have a handbag, I have - shudder! - a mambag.

Aaaaannnnd ... she's back!

 

I've had a tough month. We went home to Ireland again and once again came back with a bronchial infection (baby) and the 'flu (me). It has taken us a good month to get over it. Today Baby Gingerbread and I went out for a walk and had a look at the botanical garden:

Then we dropped by to our favourite bakery for some goodies:

Then we went home to share our loot with Papa.

And despite everything - maybe because of everything - I've been crocheting. Quite frankly, it's what has kept me sane.

Nearly finished! Then I just need to write up the pattern, have it tested, review and adjust it --- and publish it! Easy-peasy!

Detours and U-Turns

Happy Easter to all who celebrated it. We did, primarily with large amounts of cake:

"You know what?" my husband said thoughtfully. "They kind of remind me of Easter egg nests..."
Aw, man. So I won't be taking up a job as a professional cake decorator any time soon, then.

But I am getting somewhere crochet-wise and very soon I'll have something exciting to show and tell:

I will - 'scuse the pun - keep you posted ;-)

Nut Magnets and Handicrafts

I'm a nut magnet. Nutty people love me.
It's not - as we say in Ireland - off the ground that I licked it. My mother is a nut magnet par excellence, she's the Pied Piper of the Needy, Insane and Broken-hearted. My father will grumble that she gives off eejit vibes, attracting every nutcase in the county with her compulsive politeness, kind-heartedness and inability to just say No. And her children all have it, to a certain extent. Some more than others: as her blog will attest, my little sister Emily is brimming with bonhomie and she exudes good-natured eejitry. My sister Eithne has the ability to create a tow-tide of madness in her wake, managing to attract The Crazy without even trying.

It's a curse, I tell you, a curse.

'Course, I have it, too. But I tend slightly more towards my father's side - and he prefers people in small doses, as do I (which is ironic, because I have a very social job. I'm an introvert trapped in an extrovert's career) but despite my anti-social tendencies, I still attract my share of very strange people.

Let's look at exhibit A.
This was posted through my letterbox on Sunday. It reads - and I quote verbatim -

Hello!
I am in search of my identical twin-sister "Gail". She have darkbrown haircolour and have 3 childrens. Iam in search of her since 1986 already, through the german trial/court! We are halfblood's of native americans! We have a noble title! We are "sharemen-daughters". We work with the power of the nature! My twin sister "Gail" is making her own native americans jewellery! I saw her 2 time's in the USA/America. In 1992 and 1995! Why Germany and the USA/America didn't helped us? We are not allow to know the real truth? Did they killed her already? Only because they like to get our money and heritage? Is Germany and the USA - are they guilty?

Mr Gingerbread and I were - and still are - perplexed. The top of the page boasts two photos of the same woman, one is marked Princess Hope (darkbrown) and Princess New Hope (darkblond). Aha! It's not the exact same photo, oh no. They're identical twins!!! The note is handwritten in English (we're in Germany) and if one were not already questioning the sanity of the writer, the plethora of exclamation marks and underlining of random words seems to push you to a certain conclusion. At first we thought it was some sort of elaborate swindle, to be followed up by Princess New Hope looking for money to find the long-lost "Gail", but no such appeal came. She didn't drop by to heal us with the power of the nature and her shareman (presumably shaman) abilities.

More's the pity. My plants could do with a wee raindance.

Sadly, I think that Princess New Hope is simply a person suffering from a persecution complex, with a sprinkling of paranoia thrown in, to boot. This saddens me, actually, to think about what kind of mental torture this poor soul is going through - to feel the need to plaster the neighbourhood (we later found more of them in the neighbourhood) with flyers whose message is almost incomprehensible in its madness.

On a more positive note: we started feeding Baby Gingerbread some solids. He loves it - so much so, that he will lean forward and eat the bowl if the food is not shovelled into him fast enough. See the fear in his eyes? He thinks this might be his last meal. Ever.

We'll work on the table manners next.

And when I'm not brandishing a spoon, trying to get some puréed carrots into my child's greedy mouth, I'm crocheting. I need lots and lots of hexagons before I can figure out how to put them together. There is yarn everywhere. Ever.Y.where. It's a testament to the love of my husband that he doesn't complain when he removes a skein of brown yarn from the baby's cot before he puts him down. This is a man who has made his peace with life with an addict.

The slipper on the left represents the fact that I am taking a step in the right direction.
It was not a mistake, it was an artistic choice.
Of course.

Stained Glass Flowers

I've always loved the Cathedral Rose pattern, published by Annie's Attic. So much so, that I even bought a copy of it... but although the end result is always beautiful (and there are dozens to be seen on Google Images), the pattern is a bit daunting: lots of text, no photos or diagrams. For a visual learner like me, it's a little off-putting.

So I started thinking about my own stained glass pattern. It's what the Réalta pattern was supposed to be but didn't quite become. Creating a nice motif isn't hard, what is tricky is lining up the colours:

 I want to have the effect of light shining through the window, so the centre has to be the lightest, brightest point, with the colour graduating in shade towards the black frame of the window pane.
A little bit like this:

I'm pleased with the result so far. The first hexagons are lush with colour and I can't wait to add more. I've dug out every scrap of coloured yarn I have to line up shades and tones, just to find a nice colour sequence. Oooh, I like this!

Adventures in Ireland, Part III: Uncle Joe & Rummy

There's a thin line between lunacy and lucidity. Most people sit on one side or the other, others wobble down the middle, occasionally tipping to one side. My 85-year-old great-uncle Joe riverdances down this line, high-kicking on either side when the fancy takes him.
Is he eccentric, you say?
Is he what?
One day, when visiting my parents, he pulled my father aside.
"Listen!" he hissed and pointed out the window. "Listen to those pigeons: 'Cooooo! Coo!'"
My father made a listening face but he couldn't hear much through the double-glazing.
"It's that blasted MI6!" he growled. "They're spying on me again. Those pigeons are just decoys - they're bugging devices, they're tapping me!"
They didn't have to tap him - he's already tapped ... in the head, that is. My father didn't even try to explain why the British secret service really didn't need to go to the bother of installing remote-controlled robo-pigeons with listening devices in the trees outside our home. There wasn't a van hidden behind a hedge somewhere with three or four British agents taking frantic notes about Uncle Joe's dinner conversation. Her Majesty's Secret Service is not interested in hearing about his trip to Capri. If my father had even hinted at any of the above, Joe's eyes would narrow suspiciously, and he'd make his exit as quick as a flash, suspecting that the pigeons had already got to my father.

Despite the fact that his movements are being tracked by feathered vermin, he is brimming with (physical) good health and appears dapper and smart to anyone outside the family. We have just had to come to terms with the fact that while other elderly people have a touch of gout or arthritis, Uncle Joe has a touch of a persecution complex. The MI6 might be on his case, but it hasn't stopped him travelling the world. He literally - and I'm using literally correctly here, as opposed to any empty word for emphasis - walks into Dublin Airport, walks up to a ticket desk, buys a ticket to, say, Spain and ... flies there. He doesn't speak a word of Spanish - or any other language apart from (Dublin) English. And when the foreigners don't understand the elderly bald man in the three-piece suit, he just speaks more loudly. Even more loudly, that is. The MI6 don't actually need the pigeons at all, as he can be heard at a significant distance. My parents have a small pile of postcards from different destinations around the world: Jamaica (he felt like a cruise, so he went to the Carribean), Lourdes (nothing like an aul prayer now and again), Capri (he loves Italy) and, if memory serves me correctly, the Florida Everglades (don't ask.)

And when he's not travelling the world with multiple intelligence agencies on his heels, he goes shopping. Not in shops, oh no. He likes markets - flea markets, second-hand markets,  auctions and estate sales. We're pretty sure that he regularly gets fleeced - unbeknownst to himself. He triumphantly brings his purchases to our house, where he distributes them bountifully. Sadly, there are too many Gingerbreads for him to keep track of our ages or stages in life, so the presents are often wildly inappropriate. We've received close to a dozen second-hand lambskin coats, countless pieces of jewellery - real jewels mixed in with plastic-and-paste pieces - toys of every description and every state of disarray. A variety of electrical and mechanical equipment that either does not work or is long obsolete. As soon as he has left, they're gathered up and disposed of tactfully. I can't count the number of times I've arrived home in Ireland and spotted something bizarre - a CD player without a laser, a gold medallion with an anchor on it, a coffee machine without a glass carafe - lying around. I only need to point and ask, "Uncle Joe?"
"Of course!"

Hence Rummy, a Donald Rumsfeld talking doll.
I think he thought this was some kind of Barbie-esque action figure - maybe Barbie's new Sugar Daddy. Maybe Barbie had an internship in the White House and Rummy took her under his wing. Maybe Barbie and Rummy enjoyed a brief but passionate affair in the heat of war. So many possibilities! But none of the Barbie-playing target audience (my nieces) wanted an action figure of an old guy in a suit, so my mother gave it to my husband at Christmas.

I cannot tell you how happy this made Mr Gingerbread. We couldn't take the doll back after Christmas - we had no room in our cases for action figures, no, sorry - so I took pity on Mr G and brought him back his action figure after this trip. Every time he picks it up, he laughs.

Now the doll sits in its box on his desk and its beady little eyes follow me around. I fear I've opened the floodgates: before long, the house will be full of Uncle Joe's mad bargains. We'll be tripping over broken chess sets and African statues made-in-China.

Oh well. At least now I know why that pigeon has built her nest in the tree outside our front window.